Not a worthy excuse

 

It would make you angry

my not writing

just because

you are gone.

 

You were the one

who so often

encouraged me

inspired me

pushed me

roused me

applauded me.

 

You who were the one

who always

expected more

who insisted

‘you are a better writer

than you believe’.

 

Even on different paths

in recent years

your first question

‘what are you writing?’

your firmest advice

‘write about everything’.

 

It would make you angry

my not writing

just because

you are gone.

 

You would not see

my sorrow

at your passing

as a worthy excuse.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I wrote this year last year on the death of a close friend and mentor. Almost on the anniversary I learnt a few days ago of the passing of another friend, not nearly so close, but a friendship that goes back to our teens. A sense of great sorrow. It is a reminder of one’s own mortality when our friends die. Especially when they die before their time.

Art by Anne Magill

 

 

Start Again (Waster’s Lament)

 

Start again (Waster’s Lament)

 

If only I could start again

and emerge once more

into the cold April dawn

with a cry and a yawn.

Tiny fingers clutching at life

untested feet kicking

at the freedom of release.

If only I could start again.

 

If only I could start again

and reshape the child

into a brighter, better boy

with a heart full of joy.

Open arms embracing the world

innocent eyes staring

at the wonder of it all.

If only could start again.

 

If only I could start again

and remake the man

into a good honest soul

with a dream and a goal.

Tireless feet striding out

rejoicing voice singing

at the beauty of his days.

If only I could start again.

 

If only I could start again

and reclaim this wasted life.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Anne Magill

 

 

Not a worthy excuse

 

It would make you angry

my not writing

just because

you are gone.

 

You were the one

who so often

encouraged me

inspired me

pushed me

roused me

applauded me.

 

You who were the one

who always

expected more

who insisted

‘you are a better writer

than you believe’.

 

Even on different paths

in recent years

your first question

‘what are you writing?’

your firmest advice

‘write about everything’.

 

It would make you angry

my not writing

just because

you are gone.

 

You would not see

my sorrow

at your passing

as a worthy excuse.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Anne Magill

 

 

 

Shut

 

I am a sensitive soul.

Perhaps too much for a man.

I sigh at beauty. I am enchanted by charm. I can get lost in a look.

I cry at sad movies, often glad of the dark.

I am a romantic, Sad songs in my ear buds. Black and white films in the winter. Meetings in steamy-window bookshop cafes. Walks by the swan-gliding river. Dinner in the flickering light of whispering candles.

A message on my phone that ends in a kiss.

I am a dreamer. A poet. Someone who will never forget the press of lips.

And sometimes, only sometimes,  I am a fool.

Yet for all that, if I am hurt, I can become as hard and as cold as a Siberian frost.

And the doors to my heart

Slam

Shut.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Anne Magill

I wrote this almost exactly three years ago, and repeated the post two years ago and then a year ago. I am sure there were reasons for my writing the original. I am sure there must have been.
It captures the hopelessly romantic poet in me – and yet also the steel. A coldness, a stubbornness, a determination, an unbending will. I will never change. It is simply the way I am.
I hope it stands another repost.

 

Shut

 

I am a sensitive soul.

Perhaps too much for a man.

I sigh at beauty. I am enchanted by charm. I can get lost in a look.

I cry at sad movies, often glad of the dark.

I am a romantic, Sad songs in my ear buds. Black and white films in the winter. Meetings in steamy-window bookshop cafes. Walks by the swan-gliding river. Dinner in the flickering light of whispering candles.

A message on my phone that ends in a kiss.

I am a dreamer. A poet. Someone who will never forget the press of her lips.

And sometimes, only sometimes,  I am a fool.

Yet for all that, if I am hurt, I can become as hard and as cold as a Siberian frost.

And the doors to my heart

Slam

Shut.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Anne Magill

I wrote this almost exactly two years ago, and repeated the post a year ago. I am sure there were reasons for my writing the original.
It reflects the romantic poet in me – and yet also the steel. A coldness, a stubbornness, a determination, an unbending will. I will never change. It is simply the way I am.
I hope it stands another repost.

 

Bleed

Sometimes

when I feel

I have given too much

of myself away,

allowed observation

of the heart beneath,

revealed too much

of the soul within,

I fade into the shadows

and bleed silently

into the darkness.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Anne Magill

 

Romantics will hate this

Romantics will hate this ..

Devoting oneself exclusively to one person, and having one person exclusively devoted to you – forever – is a fairy story.

Even if it were possible, it is not in itself a ‘good’ thing.

We live long, we grow, we adapt, we evolve. We become different people. If one is the same person at fifty as one was at thirty then twenty years have been wasted. If our experiences, our knowledge, our expectations, our joys and disappointments have not affected, moulded, shaped us – then what are we doing with our lives?

Our hopes, our dreams, our desires are not fixed and constant. They are subject to modification, alteration, augmentation, cancellation. They are replaced by different goals. Different objectives. We like and dislike different things. We find we develop different tastes and wants and needs for fulfilment – intellectually, emotionally, sexually.

And life itself is diverse, unpredictable and ever-changing. Opportunity and threat, tragedy and comedy, disease and good fortune are always close.

And we are human. Most of all we are individuals. We arrive and leave this earth alone. We are incredibly strong but also undeniably weak. And love is powerful and wonderful. Yet it can be fickle and careless.

I believe that in all our relationships, even when they overlap, if we can honestly and truly give the most and best that we are able of ourselves, it is more than enough.

And for the romantics who believe in everlasting love and happy ever after …

I applaud you.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Anne Magill

 

 

 

Don’t think you know me

You should never make the mistake of comparing the inside of one’s own life with the outside of someone else’s

Quote from Julian Barnes

 

Art by Anne Magill

 

Shut

I am a sensitive soul.

Perhaps too much for a man.

I sigh at beauty. I am enchanted by charm. I can get lost in a look.

I cry at sad movies, often glad of the dark.

I am a romantic, Sad songs in my ear buds. Black and white films in the winter. Meetings in steamy-window bookshop cafes. Walks by the swan-gliding river. Dinner in the flickering light of whispering candles.

A message on my phone that ends in a kiss.

I am a dreamer. A poet. Someone who will never forget the press of her lips.

And sometimes, only sometimes,  I am a fool.

Yet for all that, if I am hurt, I can become as hard and as cold as a Siberian frost.

And the doors to my heart

Slam

Shut.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Anne Magill

I wrote this a year ago. I am sure there were reasons at the time. I have not changed. It is simply the way I am.

 

I tell her

I tell her I am fine

That everything is good.

That my writing is going well. A thousand words a day, and not one of them sad.

That I am going out in the evenings. To the bar in town. The noisy one with the live music and the dealers and the tarts. I know the bartender by name. We have a laugh.

I tell her I can listen to the radio without blinking back tears. I can watch movies without reliving us.

I tell her I am happy

That I’ve met a girl.

That she is pretty and petite and likes to paint. And to please me.In lots of ways.

That she dances and sings and really cares about the planet. And that kind of stuff.

I tell her I am content

That I sleep soundly at night.

Well… most nights.

I tell her I am glad she has found someone special..

That I am delighted. Honestly. Truly.

For her.

I tell her I am glad.

I just lie

about everything.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Anne Magill